Miss Hakkandottir-An Aching Hand

	Miss Hakkandottir felt an ache in the palm of her metal hand. She chuckled. How many years had it been since Mr. Socrates had sliced off her real hand with a cutlass? Fifteen? Sixteen? He'd been called Alan Reeve then. None of these fancy code names.

	No matter how much time passed, the ghost of her old hand still had feeling. Cold. Itchiness. Pain. And sometimes it even felt the future, for it had ached in Egypt a few years earlier, so she had stepped out of her tent only to have a cannon shell destroy the tent a moment later. Dr. Hyde would laugh and say it was illogical to connect the two events. It had ached many other times for no reason at all. (Slade, 270)